You Gotta
by sexyvanillatiger
Summary: "We can't continue with this sort of cat and mouse game that has characterized the relationship." Dean/Adam; slash. Could be considered PWP. Cross-posted at my LJ.


_Nobody's got a better taste of you than I do_, he writes, leaving it right where it counts before hoisting his backpack up off the dusty table, slinging it over his shoulder and pushing the door wide open and down, off of its crumbled hinges. As he steps out onto the withered and peeling porch, he thinks to himself, I've been waiting here way too long.

It's not been three weeks past when Dean gets the letter. It's almost as aged as the house and just as dusty. He's got a bag of hamburgers in one hand and that filthy piece of paper in the other, sneering at the words like he would at an ungrateful house cat. Throws it down, drops the food and sinks into a kitchen chair. He knows that Adam thought a message in a bottle would mean something a little more than the ultimatum it really is, but his older brother just knocks the alcohol to the floor with a resounding shatter and the slight laughter of a distant splash. In the distance, a flock of birds exits stage left. Dean's always followed the wind.

"Why did you leave me?" is always the question. Adam's stumbled from stepping stone to stepping stone trying to get out the answer. Because you bruise me, because you bloody me, because you leave me under the pseudonym of protection. Because you _always_ left me. Because he never liked Dean, not when he told Adam that he was never Sam and not when he expected Adam to be Sam. Because it wasn't his job to find the pieces of Dean's puzzling mind. Because he had no loyalties to this man, and his blood was his mother whether his brothers respected that or not. Mostly, because Dean was the only thing that ever really left him feeling beaten by the brunt force of his own helplessness.

Tracking has never been the easy part of the chase. It's always difficult and always bruising and brandishing and a little more out of Dean than Dean has to give. But it's never been the hardest part. That's reserved for things like discovering wrong numbers and catching glimpses in crowds of boys that look like Adam. Things like seeing the bed empty in the mornings after he's finally captured his prey and buried it under such binds as ropes and promises and thin, motel blankets.

_Nobody's got a better taste of you than I do. And I don't know what fevered perversion you've locked yourself in, what deed to a residence of delusion and grandeur you keep, but I never asked to be the custodian of your taste. I never asked you to keep me, and I never asked you to keep up with me. I never meant to share a bed with you, and I never meant for you to be able to look at me and read the filthy graffiti you left on my skin. I don't think you understand the concept of loss anymore. That's not my fault. Sincerely, Adam._

It's like hunting for sport, but instead of pleasure it ends in survival. The difference is the feeling, though. It's never felt to Dean like he was chasing sustenance. Maybe it was adaption, but it became a thrill to hear his brother's shaking voice on the other end of a pay phone, knowing that he'd finally gotten the right number. Even now, looming over him sleeping so secretly in the corner of a gloomy apartment overtop of a laundromat, Dean doesn't feel like he's going to feed off of Adam. He feels like he's going to hang him up on the wall for show.

"_Dean!_"

Hearing his voice is like coming back to life, and all the pain that accompanies it. His heart throbs and he drops down onto the mattress on top of his brother, eyes squeezed shut and tears finding loopholes around their quivering, lashed confines. Adam is stock-still beneath him, even his breathing slowed to almost a halt. It's impressive how much like a victory his brother can feel laying there underneath him. A lamp that must have never been turned off flickers, and Dean reaches over with one hand to unscrew the bulb the last little bit.

Adam takes this opportunity to give his brother just what he deserves, and it lands hard on Dean's jaw. His knuckles throb with the impact, and his throat sheds itself raw in an attempt to get a breath through the fingers closing around it, but it was completely worth it. In his pants, his dick twitches. He adjusts himself, feet scuffing against the sheets, knees bending up, hips squirming and it feels like Dean punched him back when his brother groans, pleasure shining through like highlights in the summer.

"_Adam…_"

There are certain ways that Dean's kissed him before that have left him tense but motionless with the struggle raging inside of him to make the right decision. The way Dean will kiss him while closing one strong hand around his throat has never failed to pass every test they've put it to. Adam's always been helpless and Dean's never been hesitant to squeeze until he lost it, fainting right there in his brother's arms. Adam doesn't fight it anymore. He opens his mouth and Dean's tongue swirls in like a hurricane, destroying everything it crosses.

Adam's body reacts to the kiss just like his mouth does: falling open and offering itself up for a little bit of reprieve from the chase. He's lost again, and Dean rakes his prize with clawed fingers, leaving bright, angry lines crooked down his stomach and thighs. He kisses deeper, the hand on Adam's throat loosening and reaching around to cradle his neck. He pressed kisses to the handprint on Adam's flesh, not asking or pleading but demanding, and if Adam doesn't answer, they both know that he's just going to take.

The taste is haunting. The same one that will come to his watering mouth when he wakes from the nightmares his mind stows in the darkest, deepest canyons of his consciousness. The taste is what told him he needed to leave. It was the turning point, back when he realized that he was sleeping with poison. Back when Dean started to lose control. Back when they both did. He pushes at Dean's shoulders, but his grip is tentative at best so all he does is pull Dean's open jacket away from his body. His brother shakes it off and continues the kisses up and down Adam's throat, and Adam chokes back what could have been a moan or a cry.

Dean pushes the jacket off of the mattress and curls his free bare arm around Adam's body, holding him closer against his own. He blankets his brother, always has. Always has been able to lay on top of him and cover Adam completely; he loves it. It makes him feel like he can do something right. Like he can protect his brother the way his brothers always needed to be protected.

The cold air from the crack in the windows can't find its way around Dean; Adam closes his eyes and lets his face sink forward into Dean's throat as Dean leans up to grind his evident arousal against Adam's hip. It's already intimidatingly impressive in presence, and Adam wishes that there were more appropriate moments in which Dean could channel his virile needs. But left only with a brother and an entire catalogue of haunting, heavy memories, neither of them are given many chances to do such human things. Barring, of course, the moments they share with each other. Adam could laugh. _Share_. Dean would like to think of it as sharing, but to Adam it's more like stealing. _Oh_, "_Dean!_" he moans when his brother's hand finds its way into his boxers. His bare legs twitch and he grinds his teeth.

Dean grabs a handful of Adam's hair and pulls him back down to the mattress, bearing his brother's throat and accepting his own offering to himself. He leaves marks all the way down to the collar of Adam's shirt, snarling at the obtrusive material before tearing it away and casting aside the remains. His nails leave indents in Adam's skin, and when he gets to the hem of Adam's boxers, he considers condemning them to the same fate as what once was his shirt. "Take them off," he growls in his brother's ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he speaks.

Shivering, Adam finally seems to have found that draft from the window, or Dean's words are chilling him to the root. Not that he takes it as any certain surprise. What he takes is a thumb-full of elastic in each hand, sliding the briefs down his legs and letting them be snatched out of his hands and tossed into the darkness where he'll never find them until morning. Dean's flannel and denim are shockingly uncomfortable and he tries to reposition himself in a way where he's not really touching his brother, but he doesn't get the chance.

"Stay," Dean whispers as, with one hand, he pins Adam where he is and, with the other, pries open his jaw, slipping two fingers inside. He bites his lip and groans, eyes fluttering shut but opening as soon as he can't see the way Adam isn't look at him and his lips are closing hesitantly around the rough callouses against his teeth. One long suck sends a shiver down Dean's spine that he hadn't seen coming, and he leans harder down onto his brother, eyes open and hardly inches away from Adam's.

It's not sexy. It really isn't. He sucks too hard, licks too carelessly and offers not even a glance of eye contact because that's what this is. It's forced and it's dirty. He spreads his legs and spits out Dean's fingers and tries not to watch his brother pushing one in, pushing in two. He moans and a shiver escapes him; he really isn't sure what to do. Dean undresses, tosses his clothes on top of Adam's and now he knows that he'll never be dressed again.

With one fluid, impulsive movement, Dean has Adam's knees indenting the mattress beside his ears, and they sit there for a moment like that. Adam's eyes wide and fearful, his fists clenched in the sheets, his body trembling with the stress it must take to balance against Dean's wide grip. Dean who sits there looking at his brother, wondering what kind of angel from which he must have been birthed. "You're beautiful," he says, but it sounds less like _you're beautiful_ and more like something that would actually evoke the terrified look on his brother's face. He leans down and pushes his tongue into Adam's entrance, knowing that if he can just keep going, nothing will go wrong.

"_Dean!_"

Just like that. It's not fear in Adam's voice when he cries out his name. He pushes his tongue in deeper, stiffening and thrusting his head back and forth to keep the cries coming. Adam's trembling intensifies and his fists move beneath him, grabbing at Dean's knees and pulling until he's worn himself out, and Dean keeps going, licking a stripe all the way up to Adam's balls. He sucks one into his mouth while simultaneously pushing one finger back into his brother down to the second knuckle. Adam twists, his free leg kicking out and landing over Dean's shoulder.

For some reason, Dean's persistence has always won him points in the department of baffling Adam to the point of giving in. Maybe not baffling. Maybe more like consuming. Maybe more like the face between his legs, the big eyes that remind him of the man who was supposed to be his father, those eyes staring down at him, expecting to see pleasure and seeing it. Not quite seeing what he wants, but making everything around him the way that he wants to see it. Adam can't fight any longer. He's naked and cold and hurting now, hurting so bad for Dean that when he speaks, he means to spill curses but releases pleas. Dean's always loved to hear him beg.

"Yeah, you want it?" he asks, unnecessarily. They both know that Adam doesn't want it. They both know that he needs it, and it's becoming more and more of a high to get it, because the kid has been giving him a run for his money in the tracking and the hunting. If he ever was a Winchester, it would be now. "You know only I can give it to you," Dean growls as he leans forward, embracing the sensitive flesh of Adam's arousal with his lips before letting his brother drop back down to the bed so he can scale up the rambling expanse of his torso for a kiss. It's hot and heavy and his finger inside of Adam is making it a little hard to concentrate for both of them. Adam puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, and he slips another finger in.

Dean is waiting. He's been finger-fucking Adam for some incomprehensibly long quarter of time with no signs of moving on and it's starting to drive Adam as crazy as he believes Dean is. His nails are leaving indents across Dean's back, long red roads carved in four neat sets everywhere he can reach. Dean adds another finger. Adam sobs. He lets it go on a hard breath, eyes squeezed shut and legs stretched as far open as he can get them. "Please," he moans, a horrible, low sound coming from his retched throat, "please fuck me!"

Adam is certainly no Sam. Sam would have given in long ago, and he's close to thanking the kid for it. It's been wonderful watching Adam tremble on his hand, twisting and spreading and clawing and breathing. He barely heeds to the request at first, just to get one last taste of this sight, and then he pulls the fingers out and pushes himself in. _No_, he thinks he might hear in a small voice beneath him; but he doesn't listen to it. He buries himself as deep as he can go, then pushes a little more because Adam is resisting him.

"Dean, wait," he groans, wishing his brother knew how to go slower. He pushes against Dean's shoulders and turns his face into the cool of the pillowcase. "You're hurting me." Dean just wraps his fingers in his brother's hair and begins thrusting, forcing an unwanted kiss on his lips.

The kid bites him and it hurts like being born; Dean closes his eyes and moans, feeling himself sink into the rhythm of family once more. He pulls his head away, freeing his lip and opening his eyes up to see Adam staring at him with something like contempt in his eyes. He reels his hips back, slamming them right back in a jostling thrust that removes the look of defiance in favor of pain. He would rather see something he can fix. He pushes his face into Adam's throat, sucking and biting and bruising and wishing that life had been better to them; wishing that there was a way they could have done this without some voice in the back of his head saying that there was the possibility Adam didn't want it.

But anyways, it always gets better. There's always some point where the pain stops acting like pain and starts acting like something that could be pleasure. Stops dancing like malice and starts imitating thirst. To Adam, it could be considered a coping mechanism. He turns his head away from Dean, which could mean _leave me_ or _take me_ but the answer is always in Dean's hands and head. He pulls his knees up a few inches, opening himself and making this a little bit smoother; he pushes at Dean's body, meeting resistance until his brother realizes that he's grabbing his arousal in his own tight fist and trying to match Dean's rhythm.

He can't help it; he has to watch. He leans back, leans back until he's kneeling, and he grabs his brother's hips, jerking them up to where he is and staring down at the sprawling expanse of Adam's body beneath him. From here, he has complete control; Adam's legs are toppled over his hips, trying to find footing for support, but neither of them stop.

It hits like a freight train. Something about the new angle and the lack of control and Dean's eyes. Dean's eyes all over him, on him, possessing him in ways that nobody in his life before ever dared. He gasps, choking for breath before letting the breathlessness wash over him. He shoots far, feels as two warm drops are cast onto his collarbone, and he rides through it on Dean's thrusts and the persistent movements of his own hand. He rides through until he can feel Dean following him into this oblivion.

He doesn't have the strength to hold himself up after. He just falls forward onto Adam, arms tight around his brother, not completely noticing that Adam is not trying to escape. He falls asleep face first in his brother's shoulder.

The next morning starts one hundred miles away in a 1996 hot-wired Pontiac. Adam would put money down that Dean's going to punch a hole in the wall when he wakes up. But that's not his concern. His body hurts everywhere and his pride hurts worse. With a toxic exhale, he promises to himself that there's going to be a day where he'll escape this; for now, he just has to keep breathing and running.

The note of the month says _Nothing gets sweeter when you let it ferment_


End file.
